


What the World Needs

by Razikale



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, First Meetings, Frenemies, Near Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-13 10:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11758200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razikale/pseuds/Razikale
Summary: Emily thought she knew what it meant to share her life with a hero; that the cocky, charming and far-too-chipper woman that kissed her good morning was the same as the blue streak that darted through battles and back into headlines. So long as that same bubbly, adorable woman was the one that came home each night Emily could cling to the illusion.Unfortunately, she and reality are about to have a cold encounter. Cold and French.





	1. Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> Overwatch and all its characters are the property of Blizzard.
> 
> Un-beta'd.

Emily knew Lena was a hero. Even before the recall, before Overwatch was ‘officially’ part of their life together, it was still there. Winston’s calls were hardly subtle and _both_ of them were horrible liars. Worse when they were together, in fact. The redhead allowed herself an affectionate smile as she remembered the two desperately trying to deny having eaten an entire plate of peanut butter biscuits—while the crumbs were still falling from their mouths.

The sun was just setting as she stepped out of the shower, a pleasant shiver coursing over her skin in the temperate evening breeze. Lena had said the job wasn’t far away or dangerous (that first part true, the second an obvious fabrication). She also promised to be home by 20:00 at the latest. Which couldn’t be a lie because it was pure delusion as only pathological optimism could create. Lena’s specialty.

 _‘Only a tick, love, promise. This one’s gravy. I’ll pick up supper on my way home!’_ Emily shook her head, chuckling fondly as her girlfriend’s words echoed in her mind. She stepped over the clothing scattered haphazardly across the bedroom floor like the detritus of an explosion. In the past that would’ve been a pleasant testimony to hasty fingers and touches that were too impatient to care about details like buttons. Lately, however, Lena’s frenetic wardrobe changes led _away_ from the bedroom rather than towards it.

The dull throb of self-pity tried to settle in Emily’s belly but she shook it away, scolding herself with the same words that comforted her guilt-riddled lover. The world needed heroes, didn’t it? They needed Tracer. Trying to keep her for herself wouldn’t just be selfish, it would be cruel. It would be ungrateful.

Lena might’ve been a hero without Overwatch, but she wouldn’t still be alive. Emily’s brow creased, a dart of fear stinging down her spine. Back when it seemed completely impossible they kept her in one piece, in one time. They saved Tracer before Emily even knew who she was. For that she would always be grateful and willing to share. You couldn’t be greedy with miracles.

She thought she knew what it meant to share her life with a hero; that the excitable, charming and far-too-cocky woman that kissed her good morning was the same as the blue streak that darted through battles and back into headlines. And so long as that same bubbly, adorable woman was the one that came home each night (albeit with her hair a mess and mumbling apologies that it was 2 am) Emily could cling to the illusion.

Part of that practiced denial included quiet evenings listening to the sounds of London bleeding through the open windows while she started supper alone, well past sundown. Curry kept well anyway. Perhaps it would be good to open that bottle of wine she’d spied in the cupboard yesterday. Where Lena had picked it up she couldn’t imagine. The spiky-haired pub-lover was a classic ale and whiskey woman, but if she wanted to try something new Emily wouldn’t complain. Lena’s ‘experimentation’ always worked out to their mutual benefit in the end.

Eyeing the label with her limited knowledge but discerning mind she could infer that it was clearly . . . wine. Bordeaux, and from a vineyard with all sorts of accent marks that guaranteed it was foreign and probably expensive.

“Lena, darling, where do you get these things?” Emily fumbled in the drawer for a wine opener, uncertain if they even owned one. This was nearly as odd as the chocolates she’d found last month. Obviously an indulgent gift but one her girlfriend adamantly refused to take credit for or try to explain.

After thoroughly ransacking every kitchen drawer and cabinet without success, it took all of two minutes searching around the holo-streams to find vids on opening wine without a corkscrew. Another four to find a vid that didn’t advocate the use of miniature explosives. Whoever JunkratGetsWasted was, he needed to stop combining his favorite hobbies. A serrated knife, a little patience, some spillage on the counter and a slightly sore wrist but Emily felt a surge of triumph in the sound of the cork popping free.

Wine open, curry simmering on the cooker, the flat full of delicious smells and the clock just ticking over to 19:30. Plenty of time to catch up on her reading. Along with not having a corkscrew, they obviously didn’t have wine glasses. There was something quintessentially pleasing in pouring the drink into a tea cup instead and Emily’s lips curled into a smile yet again. A small irony, perhaps; or just a delightfully tongue-in-cheek retort to the French as a whole.

Settling back into the pillows on her side of the bed Emily pulled the marker from her book and contemplated that the only things missing from such a perfectly relaxing evening were perhaps a crackling fire and, oh yes, her girlfriend. The rock that loved tugging her heart into her stomach gave a familiar twist.

Unsettled nerves bubbled up beneath her ribs and she darted a glance at the time. 19:48. She took a steadying breath, waiting for the pressure to release. This too was part of their life. No matter that she knew Lena was always wrong about what time she would be home. No matter that she knew Tracer had backup—more now than ever before. The numbers on the clock ticking by grew louder with each minute they counted down and her heart picked up speed.

A year with Lena before the recall. Letting her run off to do god-knows-what with no support other than a—admittedly brilliant—gorilla scientist and AI program. It should’ve been better now. Now that so many agents had been reactivated and joined the fight, however illegal. But nothing could seem to defuse the slowly rising panic tightening on her ribs. It had become, and apparently would always be, her own private hell to wonder if her beloved would make it home. The price of life with a hero.

19:57.

A thump from the living room felt like a jolt straight to the heart and Emily finally managed to suck in a deep breath. A wide smile spread across her face as she crossed the hallway in a few short steps to offer a breathless greeting. To a door that was still dead-bolted and chained shut. Confusion had only started to prickle beneath her skin when a sound that was distinctly _not_ a sound pulled at her attention. She spun, instantly stunned by the sight of Lena—no, _Tracer_ —sprawled on the couch. Her accelerator casing was cracked and sputtering badly, blood seeping across tight orange fabric and already pooling on the couch cushions.

“Lena!” Emily dropped everything and darted forward, the tiniest voice in her head noticing that she heard the book hit the ground but not her mug of wine. She was on her knees beside the sofa, prying the signature goggles from her girlfriend’s face, searching for any sign of consciousness. 

First aid, basic first aid. It wasn’t that Lena had never come home injured, but never like this. Emily had plenty of practice with cleaning split lips and chafed knuckles, applying salve to bruises and burns. But nothing on this level. The agent had always had the worst injuries bandaged and healed long before she crossed the threshold, cocky grin absolutely unshakeable as she brushed off the latest near-death experience.

Tonight there was no grin. Emily’s hands shook as she fumbled for a wrist, searching for a pulse. Even her freckles looked faded across that deathly pallor. The blood was coming from beneath her accelerator, had the bullet actually gone through the metal casing? It was supposed to be indestructible! She reached for the straps—

“ _Non_ ,” the cool voice from behind her was so quick and firm that Emily’s hands instantly stopped. She froze, pulse racing loud in her ears and she almost couldn’t hear the panicked thoughts screaming in her mind. The door was still locked but windows were open. She could see her book where it had fallen but no splash of wine. With a sudden, chilling calm Emily felt the pieces slot into place and she looked up over her shoulder, gaze naturally drifting towards the shadows.

Tall.

That was the only possible first impression. Not because the woman had any unusual height, but because the indescribably svelte shape of her entire body was imbued with a grace that seemed to make everything else beneath her. Emily knew who she was without ever having seen her. She often wondered whether she even _wanted_ to see her, given that Lena’s stories alternated between terrifying near-death encounters and confusingly provocative flirtations. What woman didn’t want to meet the enemy? What woman ever wanted to find out it looked like this?

Widowmaker stood at the edge of their living room. A rifle in one hand, a tea cup in the other. It was . . . Christ, under any other circumstances it would be hilarious. In that, _I’m about to die and can’t stop giggling_ sort of way. But Lena was bleeding and the blue light from the chronal accelerator was flickering and if it was losing its charge she wouldn’t just be pale, she’d start _fading._

“She’s hurt.” Emily forced words past her clenched teeth, the tension in her jaw the only thing keeping her voice from shaking like the rest of her.

“And the harness is keeping pressure on the wound.” Widowmaker took a step closer, the movement languid as a prowling cat. The lamps fully revealed the blue tone of her skin, dark lips parting in threat. “Take it off and she will bleed out.”

Emily blinked, eyes darting back to the glowing contraption anchored to her girlfriend’s chest. Yes, the blood was indeed coming from beneath the complicated device, soaking into its straps and even splattered around the edges of the light. Who did this? Who had ever gotten close enough to hurt her this badly? The redhead’s eyes narrowed, a sudden spike of rage overwhelming common sense.

“What did you do?!” She was on her feet in an instant, roaring at the sniper. Any survival instinct had gone silent. The world’s deadliest assassin was in her living room and her _superhero_ girlfriend was weak to the point of dying and even with a bloody rifle barrel trained directly on her face she couldn’t stop her feet pushing forward.

Golden eyes fell partially closed, the edges turning up ever so slightly with the hint of a smirk curling at her lips.

“I brought her home.” Widowmaker slung the rifle back behind her shoulder in a fluid movement. She took a sip from the wine in the mug, letting out a pleased sigh of appreciation. There was nothing but perfect nonchalance in her expression as she handed the cup back to Emily and stepped around her, “ _Naturellement_.”

The lipstick on the tea cup was purple. It was a stupid, shallow detail to be noticing in this moment. But with her mind ricocheting off the inside of her own skull and her entire body trembling from the realization that she could’ve been dead twenty times in the last minute, there was something hypnotic about such a tiny thing.

Emily spun, questions crashing together on her tongue. None could find shape though, all going silent as she watched Widowmaker drop to one knee beside the sofa and begin expertly undoing Lena’s clothing without disturbing the harness at all. It was done so easily, as if by instinct. A mechanical necessity, yet unspeakably intimate and the redhead couldn’t deny a sudden flare of jealousy beneath her fear. They’d been together nearly two years and she still didn’t know how to do exactly what this cold-blooded killer was doing with a precision that could only be practiced.

“ _Donnez-moi le chargeur_.” The French words had a clipped edge, her sultry accent sharper and more urgent. For a split second Emily didn’t move, trying to decipher the command with her rudimentary school lessons in the language. Widowmaker didn’t even look up, repeating louder and with less patience, “The. Charger.”

At least that was easy. Emily darted from the room, grabbing the charging station that tended to migrate back and forth between the bedroom and the living area. She dropped to her knees beside the sofa, somehow not noticing or caring about the chill that came from being shoulder to shoulder with the blue-skinned brunette. 

A heart-stopping silence unfurled around them. Her own shallow, anxious breath muted any sound from the wires and catches Widowmaker expertly handled. Emily had never even seen so many of these ports opened, secret jacks and cables revealed that she hadn’t known existed. Her throat burned from the knot of emotion tangled inside; confusion, jealousy, fear and clawing, desperate hope. The occasional, subtle movement beneath the accelerator was faint promise of Tracer’s weak lungs clinging to life. Emily took hold of a limp hand, wishing the nimble fingers would tangle with her own the way they had thousands of times before. Even with her eyes fixed on Lena’s face, she couldn’t help watching Widowmaker as she worked. The sniper expertly maintained an impassive mask and yet . . .

“Let go." The terse command was offered a little more gently than the rest. The Frenchwoman’s eyes darted tellingly to Emily’s grip on Lena’s hand. A momentary surge of protest nearly broke past her lips but there was something in that look, mysterious and dangerous as flickering fire but undeniable. With the wordless hesitance of apology Emily released hold of her girlfriend, trailing their fingers to the last second until they parted.

She turned and caught Widowmaker’s gaze watching her, eyes catching each other for longer than either intended. For a moment Emily thought she was about to say something. There was a pause in her breathing, the tiniest part of her lips as though a word were poised to break free. Then the moment ended and Widowmaker’s eyes fixed back on Lena, a mutter that sounded like equal parts curse and prayer slipping out as she pressed a switch on the charger.

Blue lightning arced along the wires, blinding Emily before she could throw up her hands to shield herself. A high-pitched whine filled the room, rising like an electrical shriek of pain. Flashes seared the inside of her eyelids, painting pictures of writhing bolts of power and a twisting shadow that could only be Tracer trapped in its grips. Emily wanted to scream, to tear the cables away and break Lena free but there were ropes holding her back. Arms. Cold and flexible but stronger than chains as Widowmaker held her in place to keep her away from the electrical storm raging before them.

It would be trite to say it was over in a flash. It was many flashes, lasting so long she couldn’t remember if the pain in her eyes was burning from the lights or her tears. It was over when the charger surrendered with a final, tortured squeal and gave over to letting off small sparks and a tiny plume of smoke. Emily pried her eyes open, lights and colors smearing together like a psychedelic nightmare. Strange blobs on the couch coalesced into the shape of Lena. She was still covered in blood but the accelerator had a steady hum more reassuring than any pulse. And she was breathing. A regular rise and fall that was both strong and serene.

“Thank god.” Emily dropped her head onto the pilot’s leg, shuddering as the last of her fear bled out in tears.

It was long minutes before the chaos of emotion began to dry up, tracks of wetness and salt on her cheeks sticking to the polymer of Tracer’s suit. She wasn’t sure when Widowmaker had let go of her; couldn’t even be sure the sniper had held her at all and it wasn’t just a deranged hallucination. Like all of this.

Not more than an hour ago reality was their one-bedroom flat with curry on the stove. It was a hot shower and pajamas and the prospect of cuddling with her girlfriend in bed and pretending to understand her day. Now reality was blood stains on the sofa and blue fingers running delicately—as gently as over blown glass—through the wild spikes of Tracer’s hair.

“Do you—,” Emily found the question catching in her throat, each word the wrong shape. There were a hundred mysteries in that touch, in the whole of this evening. Each one spawned endless roads of winding conversations and the very thought made her  . . . tired. There was really only one path that mattered right now and she unglued her tongue, forcing the words free. “Do you want to stay?”

The dulcet rumble of laughter wasn’t quite like anything she’d ever heard before.  Affectionate and yet so very distant. It was almost condescending but what wasn’t with the French? And there was no superiority in the weary, relieved sigh that slid out just beneath that sound.

“So like her.” Widowmaker shook her head, the arch of her brow an amused accusation when her eyes roved over Emily. “Sweet and foolish.”

The sniper rose gracefully to her feet, a sudden and jarring reminder of the deadly swift reflexes at her disposal. She had turned and was already heading to the window (again, with that unnerving ease that bespoke familiarity) before Emily managed to rise. She caught hold of the other woman’s wrist without a thought, unconsciously noting the way her light fingers contrasted over blue skin and black ink.

“Stay,” the single word breathed out of Emily in a rush, pushed free before she could lose her nerve. It was invitation more than command but had the effect of both.

Widowmaker froze, one hand holding open the window and her other caught in a grip that she could no doubt break as easily as a dry twig. An aurous gaze drifted from the hand wrapped around her wrist up the pajama clad arm (who ever expects to meet a sexy, French supervillain while wearing flannel?) before settling on Emily’s face.

“That is not a good idea, _n’est-ce pas_?” The subtle curl of warning beneath that sultry tone might’ve meant her invitation. Or her impulsive bravery in grabbing hold of a woman designed to never be caught.

“Neither is falling in love with an Overwatch Agent,” Emily retorted boldly. Sometimes impulsive was the only way. If she’d learned anything from her girlfriend, it was that bravery could be foolish; that didn’t make it wrong.

For the span of several breaths Emily was certain the assassin was about to fling her across the room. Or worse, simply brush her away like a nuisance and leave without a word. There was no give in her eyes, no hint of thought or emotion beneath her mask. But the coiled tension in her shoulders (amply visible in that revealing catsuit, thank you, Talon) suddenly lessened and Emily felt the tendons beneath her hand release.

“ _D’accord,_ ” Widowmaker’s surrender was a breathy murmur that made Emily’s heart skip a beat. She uncoiled her fingers, reluctantly letting the other woman go. The sniper stepped back into the room, one hand confidently resting on her hip as a coy smile tugged the corner of her pouting lips. The Frenchwoman’s attention moved from Emily down to the still unconscious Lena, lingering perhaps more than she’d intended before lifting once more, “Only for tonight.”

Emily smiled in relief, grateful that—somehow—this woman seemed to understand what she needed. What they all needed. After all, the world needed heroes. And heroes, it seemed, sometimes needed a villain.


	2. Answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm not done with this one after all! Just trying to wrangle my attention span into focusing a bit in-between travel and chaos.

The flat was a wreck. Emily could hear her mother’s voice in the back of her head, scandalized that anyone should see her home like this. The woman used to apologize profusely to any visitor (including the meter readers and deliverymen that never came past the door) for the horror of having to see her house in such a state. 'Such a state' being that a throw blanket on the sofa hadn’t been ironed yet and there was a clean tea cup by the sink that hadn’t been put away. Still, the programmed instinct from her childhood had Emily’s mouth opening to apologize until she remembered that the woman she’d be apologizing to was also the one responsible for the mess.

 _Oh, Emmy, dear. Such a mess._ Emily shook away the last of her mother’s tutting voice and surveyed the damage. A thin plume of smoke from the overwrought charging station was still seeping into the air, adding its acrid smell to that of the curry that had bubbled over on the cooker and burned. In her panicked rush to save her girlfriend’s life she’d completely forgotten about the drink in her hand and wine had soiled the carpet in splashes from the living room to the bedroom and back. The deep red color was already beginning to darken to a crimson hue like blood, adding to the gruesome spectacle of _real_ blood soaking into the sofa cushions. Throw in Lena’s not-quite-a-corpse body for good measure and the place was straight out of a crime story.

“This place looks like a murder scene,” Emily groaned. The sudden realization of _who_ she’d said that to sucked all the air right out of her lungs. “Oh, cack! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—!” She stared at Widowmaker, fully convinced that her own brain matter on the wall was about to be the finishing touch.

“ _C'est ne rien_ _._ ” An elegant shrug brushed away her terror. Which meant Emily was allowed to breathe again. Widowmaker settled gracefully into the armchair across from Lena, analyzing the room for herself.  There was a little more give in her expression, something almost like a smile touching her lips. “I prefer to leave my assignments much cleaner.”

“Assassinations.” Once more, Emily found that her mouth was making sounds before her brain had finished thinking. Perhaps the panic of the evening had short-circuited her common sense. Or maybe the adrenaline was leaving her system and there simply wasn’t enough energy left to think straight. In either case, she didn’t feel quite the same squeeze of terror in her ribs when Widow's eyes slid to her.

“ _Oui._ One shot, one kill. It does not need to be messy.” The sniper elaborated with such jarring indifference, as though she were discussing the weather. “Murder is not,” she paused, a hint of pride creeping into tone, “Professional.”

The disdainful verdict was rendered with such cool certainty that Emily found herself halfway to nodding. One could reasonably argue that assassinations were murders but that did not make murder an assassination. Murder was a great deal more common. The redhead's gaze nervously darted over Widowmaker. She doubted anything about the blue-skinned Frenchwoman could ever be called ‘common.’

Anything, that is, other than the flat she was currently surveying with a trace of amused curiosity. Those golden eyes drifted over the walls and furniture, artwork and knickknacks, with an oddly intrigued gaze. It was as if she were seeing for the first time things that she'd always known, foreign and familiar at once. Not quite proprietary but . . . intimate.

"You've been here before." The realization hit Emily all at once. Because, of course she had. The world's most dangerous assassin knew her flat, her home, well enough to come right in the window and toss her girlfriend on their couch. 

Widowmaker didn't reply immediately. Or directly, for that matter; she didn't have to. Her answer was obvious enough from the note of humor in her voice when she casually asked, "Was that the last of the Bordeaux?"

A weight settled in Emily's stomach. Not heavy with the dread of minutes ago, but dense and certain like an anchor. Numb and grounded. Without a word she went to the kitchen, needing only a cursory glance to remind herself—to _prove_ to herself—that  she wasn't crazy. The bottle wasn't on the counter. It was in the cabinet. Right where she'd left it before all of this ever began. It stood there between the canned beans and packet of  crisps, completely innocent and still a damning accusation.

This time there wasn't quite so much relish in pouring the wine into tea cups. A hard clench of the jaw bit back any instinct to apologize as she handed Widowmaker the mug, instead silently daring her to say anything. There was no response, just that same enigmatic expression and a murmured ' _merci'_ that was so polite as to be absurd. But no more absurd than anything else tonight.

Emily shifted Lena's legs enough to make room for herself on the sofa and wondered if there was anyway to pretend she felt comfortable with this. Any of it. She took a sip of the expensive wine, absently realizing she hadn't tasted it yet tonight.

"It's excellent, thank you." The words were the first that felt safe, the beginning of a handle on this new shape of things. Or just the edge least likely to cut.

It wasn't a question, and so Widwomaker didn't answer. A slight incline of her head acknowledged the comment, or agreed, or mentally decided to kill the redhead in her sleep. Emily couldn't tell. Lena would almost certainly know.

"The chocolates as well," Emily prodded at the tension, like inching out onto a minefield and waiting to hear the click. "Was there a special occasion?"

Lena's birthday was months away, the holidays just as long past. That meant the gifts had to be for something else, something she didn't know. Something for only Tracer and Widowmaker. Emily half expected to feel a trigger click inside herself, surprised there was only dead calm.

"So English, insisting there must be a reason for pleasures." A noise of irritation in Widow's throat sounded more forced than the hint of laughter that slid beneath her words. The answer was too swift, too rehearsed. Her tongue shaped the complaint with the familiarity of repetition.

"But there is, isn't there?" Emily couldn't explain how she knew that Widow had reasons. Anymore than she could explain the certainty in her gut that Widow and Tracer had probably had this exact conversation at some point. Perhaps it was only once, or over and over many times.

"An assignment last month," Widowmaker replied airily, settling back into the armchair. Her regal aura imbued it with the luxury and command of a throne. Even the way she held her tea cup made it seem like fine crystal instead of the Woolworths special. "She spied my nest and ruined any chance of taking the shot."

"She stopped you and you brought her sweets?" Emily wasn't sure about the basic rules of engagement for good vs. evil, arch-nemesis rivalries; but she couldn't remember ever reading that Hitler sent Churchill bonbons. Or Joker gifting Batman flowers.

" _Oui_ ," Widowmaker shrugged one shoulder, a simple gesture that insisted this was all perfectly normal. "Last time the battle was mine, but she fought well. _Petite mais féroce._ Skill is its own satisfaction but there must be other rewards from time to time, _n'est-ce pas_?"

 _I understand._ Emily just barely stopped herself from speaking, confining herself to a short nod. Tracer lost and the assassin brought her a gift. Widowmaker lost, and she still brought a gift. Emily could feel the words carefully caught behind her clenched jaw. _It has nothing to do with battle. But everything to do with you. And her._

"How did you know what to do?" Emily looked down at her sleeping girlfriend.

Lena’s face had returned to a healthy color, cheeks pink beneath their dusting of freckles. Not near death anymore, not succumbing to blood loss or the fingers of time ripping her apart. The ambient blue of the accelerator glowed like a protective aura over her heart. She looked so peaceful, so oblivious to the fact that the world had shifted on its axis and could never turn back. But then, the slipstream pilot had to be used to that, didn't she?

"I have seen her do it before." Widowmaker's attention also went to the unconscious woman. There was a quickness and intensity in the dart of her eyes, very near hunger, that told Emily the assassin's gaze had deliberately been avoiding it before. Out of respect perhaps, or because it might betray some vulnerability she wasn't yet ready to confess.

"The overload is dangerous," Widow continued, her voice deeper and thicker than before. "But it seems to force a reset, reverting her back to," she struggled for a word in either language, " _Sécurité? Non,_ her last safe position? I do not know the term. I do not even know how it works," a hint of irritation crept into her tone, the curl of a snarl that vanished before touching her lips. "I only know what I have seen save her in the past."

"How many times?" Emily was surprised at the sound of her own words, quiet but even; without any trace of hesitance. Just because she might not like the answer didn't change that she had to know.

"How many times has she overloaded? I've no idea." Widowmaker waved dismissively at the air, shooing away pesky notions. "I've only seen it twice before, but for all I know it may happen every time she forgets to unplug the toaster before prodding inside it with a butter knife."

Emily felt a ghost of a smile flit across her lips. Lena did indeed constantly electrocute herself because she never remembered that fishing for stuck toast with a metal knife was bad for her health. Even sucking on her fingers after the spark burn, the cheeky devil just grinned and claimed that was how she got her distinctive hairstyle.

"How many times have you saved her?" Emily clarified her question, refusing to let Widowmaker evade the point. A narrowing in the other woman's eyes betrayed annoyance. Either by the question or the stubborn persistence behind it.

"Silly girl, how should I know? That is for our little romantic there to keep track of." The assassin gave a nod towards Lena, deliberately hardening her gaze. "I only count kills."

Emily nodded, mostly to herself and hid her thoughts behind a sip of wine. Despite the coldness of the answer—or perhaps because it was too harsh to be real—she knew Widow had an actual number. A mental scorecard she didn’t want to share. What would a spider ever choose to share in the first place? ' _Our little romantic.'_ Even when she was being dismissive to keep her secrets, the assassin was revealing more than she realized. Just like Emily couldn't keep herself from confessing too much with each question.

"Her harness, I've never. . ." she chewed her bottom lip, eyeing the accelerator and searching for a shred of the warm comfort it used to give her. The glow thrummed ever so lightly, like Lena's own pulse, and silently betrayed her. Emily could only swallow back the emotion in her throat, not the actual words, "I don't know how to move around it like you did.  Have you ever, before—?"

She couldn't finish. Partially because she didn't know how to finish it but mostly because she did. To ask if Widowmaker had handled her like that before; touched the rest of her body with that same confidence and intimate ease she’d shown with the pulsing, external heart of Lena's entire being. Emily wasn't ready to know that yet.

"No." Widow answered the unspoken questions, all of them. Her eyes held Emily's, a firm gaze that would allow no doubt or denial. "I watch, and I learn. With patience there is nothing you cannot know."

The cryptic and ominous response lead to a deluge of other questions and not just a little fear, but also—more than anything—a palpable sense of relief. Emily let out a deep breath that had been stuck under her ribs, releasing the stoic bravery that had been braced for the worst. There was some of Lena that Widow hadn't touched, pieces that were still hers alone. Which took some of the sting out of the larger truth.

Her eyes flicked from Widowmaker to her girlfriend and back again, finally feeling the click. Not the landmine she'd expected; more like the right key fitting a lock. Emily could only have pieces of Lena, never all of her. Neither of them could.

The silent eye contact between them shifted, softening from stalemate to . . . Not sympathy; Emily knew that was far too kind a word for the tiny glimmer of emotion she saw behind Widow's lethal gaze. Recognition, acceptance, a touch of that universal humor that insists on laughing at misery. Ah—Emily found the echo inside herself and knew it at once— _resignation._

A sudden urge to connect to the other woman swelled up in Emily's chest. Bizarre and against all her best survival instincts, she truly wanted to take Widow's hand. To hold it reassuringly the way she did Lena's when the world began to press too heavy on her shoulders, because between them both they could carry the burden.  Before she could understand that impulse her fingers were already reaching out. Widowmaker met her halfway. With her teacup.

Widow was on her feet; the swift, fluid movement interrupting any of Emily's barely formed plans.

"That is enough for tonight." The mellow purr of her voice had just a hint of warning beneath it. That was all she would get from the sniper this evening. Either because it was all she needed to hear, or all Widowmaker intended to share.

Emily didn't try to stop her this time, simply nodding and taking their empty cups towards the kitchen. She could feel the other woman hesitating behind her but didn't dare turn back to look. In the glass of the artwork nearest the kitchen she could just make out the reflection of Widow crossing the room to stand above Lena's peacefully sleeping form. It felt like spying, but the band around Emily's ribs wouldn't let her turn away. A hitch of fear held her breath captive, wondering if the assassin wasn't about to put a bullet in her girlfriend after all. Wondering if that was the worst thing she could see in this instant.

"Next time, _ma cherié_." Two pale blue fingers pressed to Widow's lips, then brushed Lena's cheek. Seeing her like that, in the  distorted color of the reflected image, Widowmaker didn't look so different. She looked like any other woman in the world; free from care or concern beyond the contentment of knowing a loved one is safe.

There was nothing more to see. Or if there was, Emily let it happen in private. The tea cups took only a minute to wash and rinse but she lingered over it, polishing them dry with the dishcloth and placing them precisely back on their shelf. When she returned to the living room it was distinctly lacking in willowy, blue assassins.

 _A loved one_. The thought repeated in Emily's head as she sank back down onto the sofa. _Or, at the very least, someone irreplaceable._

Tracer's nemesis was every bit as terrifying as she had been told. Cold. Confusing. Emily began to wind through the myriad emotions that had tangled in her head like snarled fishing line, trying to follow the thread from beginning to end. Undeniably gorgeous. Absolutely infuriating. Emily felt her breath go still, a single knot in the middle of everything loosening and letting it all unfurl.

Alone.

Emily let out a shaky sigh, gazing down at the innocent, beautiful face below her. Her girlfriend was still so blissfully unaware, conveniently ignorant of the chaos that had just upended their world. She lightly combed her fingers through errant spikes of hair, unconsciously stroking the same cheek Widow had touched.

"Oh, Lena, darling," Emily shook her head fondly, voice warming with a smile for the first time in hours. "Sometimes, I do with you could be just a little less _you_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you who've been so great about commenting and extending a welcome to this fandom and pairing. Since my mental version of the characters is based solely off the comics and other fics, I hope I'm not massacring anyone. Please let me know if they seem OoC, or any other opinions you care to share.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> P.S. I know Woolies has been closed in the UK for years now, but there's talk of them opening back up and this is supposed to be the future so . . . .


	3. Understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! This chapter has a bit of bi-polar personality with emotions swinging a lot of different directions. A lot of that is because I'm still getting a handle on the way these three characters relate, but also because the setup I've thrown them into is some pretty complicated shit for anyone to deal with.

The main drawback to tenement living (other than the times the lifts go out and everyone has to slog up four or twelve or twenty flights of stairs with groceries and toddlers in tow) is the other tenants. Three doors down was the bloke who'd one day looked in a mirror and could genuinely, with a straight face, say seven ferrets wasn't enough and biff off to buy another. Right on the other side of the bedroom wall was a lovely family whose precocious five year old had a nasty knack of overhearing the least savory bits of an intimate moment and then bringing it up in wide-eyed innocence the next time they all happened to meet in the hallway. Above was a woman with either OCD or narcolepsy, because no one should fall asleep in the tub as often as she did. Regularly overflowing water had leaked into the living room ceiling and left a bit of discolored buckling that looked—for all the world—like Jesse's nose after the last time Fareeha broke it.

It was such a good likeness that when Lena slit one bleary, sleep-encrusted eye open she couldn't help smiling as if the man himself were standing over her. The water damage didn't smile back, but it also didn't give a grizzly, tobacco choked laugh and tell her she looked like a three day hellbender shit-stain. Or any of the other typically colorful greetings she heard from McCree when he had to scrape her off the battlefield.

The battlefield! Both of Lena’s hands flew to the spot on her side, gripping the ribs where she'd felt the bullet hit. Her flesh was completely intact. Not even a hint of holes or pain, though she could feel her gloves sticking to the tacky residue of dried blood. There was also a bit of sting near the accelerator, skin closest to the metal sensitive like bad sunburn.

Reaper, that sodding wanker. That shot wasn't even luck! It was a fluke, a one-in-a-million chance. If he'd been aiming properly the bullet would've gone in under her arm, through her ribs, nicked up a bunch of arteries and ventricles and forced her to blink back. Instead, he had to get all impatient and squeeze off at an angle that tore through nothing but bone and muscle and cracked the housing on her accelerator! The poor thing sputtered and sparked like shorted wires when she tried to skip back in time, a scratched record that couldn't get off the bad track. When she finally realized she might need help the world had already started to go all dark and wonky from the blood loss.

Lena frowned, blinking a few times to bring the room into sharper focus. If her team took the battle then she should've been back at Gibraltar getting a stern lecture in that mix of German and English that Angela always fell into when she'd been especially worried. If Talon won she shouldn't have woken up at all. But she was awake. And safe. And—she wiggled a little, exploring the familiar lumps and dents of the cushions beneath her with the full realization sinking in— _home._

"Widowmaker," she chuckled, letting her head fall back against the sofa arm. Her eyes slid lazily shut, a quiet voice in her mind wondering if the sniper was watching from some distant rooftop. With that visor full of different scopes, sensors and tricks there was probably one that knew what she was thinking before she did. Which did nothing to change the spread of her cheeky smile.

"Guess that evens the score again, doesn't it, love?" Lena continued her conversation with thin air, humming thoughtfully to herself. The odd part was that she hadn’t seen Widow anywhere at the attack site. No one had reported her presence and there’d never been that deafening roll of thunder from Widow’s Kiss. Stood to reason though. Where there was Talon, there had to be a bird. (There would also inevitably be shite; that was Reaper).

“Pity, I liked having one up on you,” Lena’s grumble gave way to a rueful sigh. “Not likely to get another chance to save your arse for a while, am I?”

“So that’s a regular thing between you two?” The sudden question gave her a vicious start. Lena jerked upright on the couch, adrenaline surging down to her fingers and toes, quickly followed by a harsher burst of guilt that burned her cheeks. Should’ve realized—should’ve been her first bloody thought—

“Emily!” Lena’s head swam from the panic and sudden movement but she forced herself to stay up. Her vision righted and let her find the redhead, currently leaning against one arm of the sofa. The largest knot in her throat subsided, clearing the way for a shaky, tight breath. “I’m so, so sorry, love. Are you alright? What happened?”

“I met Widowmaker,” Emily spoke slowly, adjusting to the shape and feel of the words. She was looking down at Lena with that same air of absent concentration that came over her whenever she got lost working on a puzzle for hours.

“Oh.” Lena waited, hoping more would follow. The blank wall of Emily’s gaze might have been a mask for pain, suppressed anger, or just the emptiness of shock. When nothing else was said she licked her lips, tentatively easing closer across the couch. “And, how was that then?”

“Lovely, of course. I showed her pictures from our last holiday and then we watched Charlotte’s Web.” Emily’s reply was offered so easily, with such casual calm, that Lena had started to nod before the recognized the tired sarcasm laced through every word.

“Deserved that, didn’t I?” The brunette groaned at her own naiveté. She’d reached the far end of the sofa but the tension in Emily’s shoulders warned her not to touch. Not yet. There was no keeping the thread of worry from slipping urgently into her voice. “Tell me what happened, Em. Tell me you’re alright?”

“I’m not sure,” Emily shook her head, eyes roaming the room without focusing on anything in particular. Fingers distractedly raked through her flame colored hair, thick waves instantly settling back into place unperturbed. “She brought you home.” That deep green gaze finally locked on her, like she had found the start of the answer. “She scared the bloody wits out of me and then saved your life, Lena, I watched her. Then we sat and drank wine and . . . talked.”

Not one to be caught out twice, Lena scoured her girlfriend for any hint of sarcasm before daring to nod. Emily, kind, lovely and almost completely defenseless (mind, steer clear when she’s in a tiff and has her hands on the kettle) had been alone with the single most dangerous assassin on record, and they simply had a tipple and chat?

“That sounds—,” Lena’s tongue started and stopped over half a dozen words. _Impossible. Hazardous. Surreal. Stupid. Nice._ The thoughts rattled to pieces when she shook her head, one hand raking awkwardly through her hair. “Sorry, love. Having trouble wrapping my brain around this one.”

“Me too.” Emily echoed her with a small, incredulous chuckle.

She pried Lena’s fingers loose from her hair, gently wrapping them in her own. A breath that she didn’t know she’d been holding escaped all at once, gratefully clenching Emily’s hand tight. A gentle tug was all the argument needed to pull her to Lena’s side, naturally seeking refuge in the familiar warmth of each other’s touch.

Tracer’s eyes roved around the quiet room, unconsciously searching for clues of Widowmaker’s presence.  Bullet holes, a venom mine, unreasonably fashionable boot prints in the blood, that beguiling trace of fragrance that lingered in her nose after every near brush with azureous death.

Right now the only scent she could find was the mellow honey sweetness of Emily's shampoo. A deep breath drew it in, held the comfort in her lungs as long as she could. It smelled like everything homey; real and solid as an anchor but so impossibly fragile. Lena felt a wry smirk edge towards her lips, darting a look down at her accelerator. No one knew more than her about the delicacy of anchors. 

"Lena," Emily's voice gently called her attention back. Emerald eyes were fixed on her, shimmering with a hundred facets of emotion. The hand in hers clenched nervously, the split-second hesitation of a fight/flight decision before she spoke, "How did this happen? 

"Oh, it's not anything to worry about, love," Lena eagerly latched hold of the chance to offer some comfort, putting on her brightest smile. "Winston got wind of some trouble that sounded like Null Sector again and had me meet up with Pharah, Jesse and Mercy to sniff it out. Turns out we were dead wrong." 

"Not that," Emily huffed, pushing back just slightly from her girlfriend. Enough so that there was room for her frown to chill the air. There was pain beneath the irritation; confusion and worry and a silently desperate need to understand. "Everything before. This game you and Widowmaker are playing. How did it _happen_?" 

"Oh. That." Lena found herself mirroring her girlfriend's expression. Perhaps with a little extra confusion, seeing as she was in the dark for most of these answers. But some annoyance too, because tonight's mission would've made for a great story.  

Finding a bunch of Talon thugs stirring up anti-Omnic trouble? Jesse flirting with Mercy, and Pharah muttering god-only-knew-what obscenities in Arabic? He was setting himself up for another broken nose and right quick.  It was a corker of a night! A little extra dramatic too, seeing as she got shot and wounded, only to be rescued by her nemesis. Sometimes nemesis. Weirdly fun to fight with woman that she sort of looked forward to seeing. Was there a word for that? 

"You know you can tell me anything, Lena." Emily had to pull her back from her private musings once more. Lena’s heart dipped towards her stomach. Anytime someone says that its trouble. It isn't so much the words themselves that are wrong, but the feeling that they have to be said, true or not. 

“I saved Widow’s life a while back.” She tried to sound blasé, but hearing the fact said out loud made her realize how heavy it felt. One sentence groaning with complications. The weight eased a fraction with her sheepish chuckle, “Caught us both by surprise, honestly. I didn’t really think; just _blink_ and done. She returned the favor a bit later because she’s twice as proud as she is stubborn. Then it sort of became this,” Lena struggled to find a word for the strange framework of kindnesses that had evolved between firefights. It was useless and she could only shrug helplessly, “This thing.”

The uncomfortable pit in her stomach reminded Lena of her own ignorance. She’d tried piecing these answers together before, picking up what she could from the seemingly random moments of generosity that broke the routine of violence. A handful of times she’d tried asking Widowmaker. In roundabout ways, of course, since that was the only option when they were literally chasing each other in circles. All she ever got was cryptic replies; teasing laughter that mocked her with secrets just beyond reach.

Sometimes there’d be a hesitation, an expression that looked like an error before resetting to ‘bitch mode.’ Once—and _only_ once—their dangerous banter had filled up with shards of truth, tiny, jagged and sharp. Tracer (because she was Tracer a lot more often then) was downright savaged but the pain had been familiar. It echoed memories of hauling crashed pilots out of freezing water; that scrabbling, clawing urgency that raked at everything and left stinging wounds even on saviors.

A long sigh warmed Lena’s cheek, clipped at the end with a chuckle, “You really are amazing.” Emily’s voice had a breathless trace of wonder.

Lena’s eyes darted over in surprise, confusion already starting to form words of protest. Soft lips claiming hers aborted that plan. The tender intensity pressed to her mouth felt like the deep, unspoken affection that Emily gave her after a wonderful date night, or when Lena surprised her in bed with morning tea, or those times when there was just too much happy for any one word. Emotion left eloquent caresses against her lips that made her head swim until Emily leaned back.

“Just now noticed?” The impish taunt felt like molasses on her tongue, but the humor still sparkled brightly when Lena found her girlfriend’s radiant gaze.

“There’s no one like you.” Emily’s fond smile grew wider. “You saved your own enemy without a second thought. I’m so very proud of you.” Slender fingers caught Lena’s cheek, bringing her to rest their foreheads together. The soothing voice and touch washed over her, weighing down her eyelids with irresistible contentment, trying to cling to each word as Emily continued, “You’ve never, ever seen the right thing to do and turned away. That’s one the reasons it was so easy to fall in love with you, sweetheart.” There was a pause, a break in the lulling rhythm, breath held captive. “I can’t even blame her for being in love with you too.”

Lena’s mind snapped back like a rubber band.

“What?” Her eyes flew open, fully convinced she’d find her girlfriend barely holding back a fit of giggles. Emily’s expression held no secrets; only a patient, determined sincerity. It made the disbelief stuck in Lena’s throat tighten around her forced laugh, “When did you start talking such rubbish, love? ‘S my job.”

“It’s not rubbish, Lena.” Emily shook her head, mournful warmth softening her eyes. “I am sort of the resident expert on loving you, aren’t I?”

“Em, I know tonight’s been weird for you. Anytime meeting Widowmaker, it’s going to mess with your head something fierce.” Lena’s legs bounced inexplicably, suddenly full of the need to move. She rose with the darting, impatient energy that didn’t fit right in their living room.

This was her fault. If she’d just been watching Reaper closer, or called for help sooner. She shouldn’t have let Emily talk about her encounter with Widow at all. The shock of it, the confusion; that took days to sort out, not one conversation in the early hours. Lena unconsciously checked the straps and controls on her accelerator, a nervous habit to make sure she wasn’t coming untethered again.

It was instinct, wasn’t it? Wanting to know what happened. Wanting to be absolutely sure her girlfriend was safe. Emily was unharmed and that should have been enough. They should’ve stopped there, gone to bed and got a good night’s rest. Then they could’ve unpacked all this in nice, clear daylight with tea and toast and the freedom to laugh at everything.  

“You know Widowmaker better than I do,” Emily easily admitted with a shrug. “Probably better than anyone.” She stood from the couch and interrupted Lena’s pacing, arms folded as if she were going to fight for the ground. “But you know the assassin that works for Talon. I only met the woman that saved your life. _Saves_ your life, apparently.” Her arms loosened then, holding herself protectively around the waist to ward off chilling thoughts.

Lena started towards her, longing to pull her into a hug and fight off every fear. “Emily—,”

“You need to know.” The redhead held up a hand, stopping her short. “To understand: I don’t care _why_ she brought you home safely. Only that she did.” Emily closed the space between them, her fingers sliding under the straps of the accelerator harness with a new, raw intensity. “Tracer means something to her. Maybe as much as Lena means to me. But it’s bullets to biscuits, sweetheart. You’re the only one that knows both.”

The kiss that captured her was hesitant this time. Like brushing the edges of an open wound. Or the morning ritual that saw them both out the door under the silent worry only one of them might make it home. Emily started to pull back, Lena’s arms instantly wrapping around her and refusing to surrender her lips. The explanation was here, at the tip of her tongue, in the breath caught between them. There was a tangle of pain and hope, pardon and regret. The bittersweet emotion swept across her lips and lodged a spike between her lungs. It wasn’t goodbye; there was too much promise and longing for that, too much strength in Emily’s hands clinging to her. This was the bruise of melancholy postponed. A specter of _Someday_ , not quite enough to ruin the happiness of now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I didn't muddy things up too much here. I'd love to hear how it came across, the impressions you readers get of Emily and Lena and their handling of the situation. Your expectations of reactions, predictions of the outcome, all that sort of thing.
> 
> Thanks to all of you who've already been so helpful and supportive with your comments.  
> I saw a quote that made me think of Ao3 commenters and wanted to pass it along, particularly because I think criticism is as useful as commendation:  
> "The purpose for needing the feedback is to put it into your work, not put it into your worth.” - Theo Tsaousides  
> You guys make my work better!


	4. Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter than the others but I think it gets across everything that I wanted for this segment.

The gentle swell and fall of Emily’s breasts against Lena’s side assured her the redhead was contentedly dreaming. Had been for at least the past hour. A quick glance at the clock confirmed the numbers had crept forward another twelve minutes despite it seeming like days. There was no stifling a frustrated groan, immediately regretted when she felt Emily stir slightly beside her. At least one of them ought to get a good night’s sleep.

Carefully slipping from her girlfriend’s arms, Lena eased out of bed. Once her feet hit the floor she froze, holding her breath and watching for the moment Emily reached for her and woke up. There was no denying a flutter of disappointment at how easily the redhead simply stretched out in the empty space without missing a beat. She had gotten used to sleeping in an empty bed. Lena sighed, unconsciously apologizing by tucking the covers up around her before she grabbed a robe and tiptoed out.

The ambient glow of her accelerator in its charging station painted the living room a dim, pulsing blue. That soft light was enough for her to find her way to the kitchen without tripping or stubbing any toes. Absently grabbing a glass to fill from the tap, her eyes lit on a distinctive bottle standing out on the counter. Easily two-thirds empty. Emily really hadn’t been putting her on about having a drink with Widowmaker.

Sodding hell it was a good thing the subject of the wine didn’t come up. Lena’s relief slid out in a short, grateful chuckle.  She wasn’t sure she could handle explaining _that_ to Emily too, not after everything else tonight. There were already enough revelations to analyze and confusions galore. Not so much for Emily, mind you. Lena had to admit she was a touch jealous of just how _certain_ her girlfriend seemed about a lot of things. That didn’t mean she was ready to find out that Widowmaker’s habit of random gifts was sort of—in a way—well, really no two ways about it: Tracer had started it.

There hadn’t been anything particularly meaningful about it, no intention of beginning a tradition that would last this long and touch right to the heart of home. She’d simply been in Winston’s lab and spied a bottle of high grade lubricant. What better way to remind Widow of the time her grappling line jammed and Tracer blinked between buildings to catch her midair? It was perfect and cheeky; an absolutely wicked delight when she finally got to give it to the assassin the next time they met. Never once did it cross her mind to wonder why she’d been with her best friend in Overwatch headquarters but thinking of Widowmaker.

Who knew a bottle of industrial oil was going to be the equivalent of a dropped glove? So bloody _French_. At their next battle Widow caught her by surprise, retaliating with a thigh holster strap that made Tracer groan. Of course, she would have to be all smug about the time Tracer had drawn her pistols only to find one came up with its torn holster still snugly fitted on the barrel. After that the game felt official, each of them taking turns finding bits of gear and battle mementoes to annoy or embarrass the other. (A piece of fist from the broken sculpture that Tracer got blasted through in Numbani was a particularly low blow.)

Then, without being consciously aware of it, the lines blurred and shifted. Suddenly it was ordinary stuff in the shops that caught Tracer’s eye; tchotchkes and tongue-in-cheek souvenirs that were still meant to poke at buttons. The blue frog plushie was a particularly delightful feather in her cap. Almost as racist as the tube of sun cream Widowmaker flung at her head on a blistering day in Oasis. Fair point though, she did end up using it. And the Deep Heat muscle rub she gave the assassin was no crueler than the stopped watch she got later in return. Both made her laugh.

They played the game without ever noticing the rules changing each time they met. Trying to goad and offend one another gave way to trading small, tangible proofs that they were people outside the battlefield. _I’m thinking of ways to annoy you_ simply became _I’m thinking of you._ She couldn’t remember when. A spider hair pin, orange tinted sun shades, a pocket music box that played Swan Lake (some piece of it, anyway), a jetfighter key chain that doubled for opening bottles of beer.

Each token felt like grasping at threads, trying to capture enough that they could be woven into a shape, a link. A tether. They were real. Outside of Talon and Overwatch, apart from bullets and scorecards. They were both more than the superficial personas that went on with the weapons. And off the battlefield they didn’t vanish. Somehow, a silly Buckingham Guard Inaction Figure or box of fancy chocolates provided a reassurance they both needed.

Which shouldn’t have mattered anymore because she had Emily. Tension balled in Lena’s shoulders. She set her untouched water glass in the sink and stormed from the kitchen. Right into a leg of the coffee table with her left foot, two toes splitting against the wood with an explosion of pain that nearly brought her to the floor. A fist shoved tight between her teeth muffled the loud string of expletives so as not to wake Emily as she did the ancient god-I’m-a-moron one footed dance all the way over to the far windows. The glass was cold against her flushed face and she rested her forehead on it, waiting for the sting and anger to cool down.

An ironic chortle fogged the glass. That was her in spades, wasn’t it? Always needing to cool down. Her accelerator, her haste, enthusiasm; shite, even her temper now and then. In the RAF they’d teased her about being a hot shot pilot. Then Overwatch came along and helped her realize her full potential. Tracer: a type of ammo that leaves a trail of fire and smoke. She wouldn’t trade a day of it for the life of a queen.

Her foot finally stopped throbbing and she gingerly rested it back on the floor. The night lights of London were blurred by a thin film of drizzle clinging to the windows. In a few hours dawn would come and not make all that much difference really. Those clouds had the stubborn look of the sort that stuck around for days, the ones that hung over everything like damp wool.

Widowmaker wouldn’t still be out there, would she? A twinge of guilt had Lena’s eyes raking the distant rooftops, knowing full well there was no seeing the sniper unless she _wanted_ to be seen. But Lena couldn’t help wondering, worrying. These trickling rainstorms could turn in a minute and Widow’s catsuit wasn’t much in the way of protection from the elements. What had the pervs at Talon been thinking when they dreamed up that latex number, anyway?

Lena screwed her eyes shut, biting into her lower lip to stop the spiraling thoughts. No one was less likely to catch sniffles than Widowmaker. She was literally built for the cold. Probably why it was so fun when they fought. Her heart skipped under her ribs, reaching for the adrenaline and glory of dashing around that glacial, slippery danger like lightning through a blizzard. The wood of the window frame creaked under her fingers, echoing the frustrated noise that didn’t quite escape her throat.

Widowmaker. The name she hadn’t been able to ignore for more than five minutes all night. Her mind kept doing circles, making her dizzy. It provoked a pack of dogs in her head; on the trail of something they were too scared to catch but wouldn’t stop chasing.

She should’ve told Emily about the gifts. They hadn’t seemed worth mentioning all this time but now they felt important. Not just part of the puzzle but also the box it came in. Lena propped her forehead against her arm instead of the windowpane, getting enough space to breathe and stop mashing her nose on the glass. The rain was coming down harder, like she’d thought it might, and the blurring images suited her. Nothing to see when she wasn’t really looking.

It wasn’t too late. She could gather up the trinkets and shove them in a box; not the shades though because those were brilliant, and she was pretty fond of that keychain. Except hiding them away seemed worse, they went from a mistake to a secret. Perhaps she just needed to get rid of them for good? _No._ A darting sting of dissent was shoved down. She could pack everything up and give it to a donation or recycling center, easy as pie.

_NO._

Lena’s breath left her like a punch, caught by surprise at the sheer force of her mind recoiling in horror from the thought. For a moment she held herself completely still, frozen and breathless as she tried to explore the gut-wrenching sensation. It felt like her bones had been hollowed out, like she was standing in front of the subwoofer at a concert and every beat of her heart was overflowing and empty at the same time. Right, there’d be no getting rid of Widowmaker’s gifts. Lena counted out a slow breath; four on the inhale, six on the exhale. Now, why?

She prodded at the instinct like a wound, feeling for a cause in the shape and depth of its edges. Someday she was going to want those mementoes. The hazy outline that rose through her thoughts was more an emotion than an answer. An impulse to gather all those meaningless tokens and look at each one and remember it, remember when it was given to her and why, what it meant. Someday that was going to be all she had of Widowmaker.

“Oh, bugger me,” Lena whispered, staring at the outline of her reflection in the glass. Was it her imagination or just a trick of the rain and lights that looked like moisture in her eyes?

Widowmaker might die. It was a reality of daily life for both of them, part of the hero/villain business. (Ok, illegal hero/paid assassin, but that didn’t sound as grand.) She’d just never stopped to think about how it would feel if the snarky, heartless sniper was actually gone. Logically, it should make her happy. One less sociopath out there taking potshots at innocents and causing chaos. Her breath staggered in her chest, threatening to choke her with a sob if she dared think anything like that again. If Widowmaker died she’d want every one of those offensive gifts and thoughtful nothings. The ball of emotion in Lena’s throat unraveled a little, easing the ache.

She would miss her. Ridiculous as it sounded in her head, that truth freed a tidal wave of relief. The tension washed out of her body, along with most of her strength and she sagged against the windows. The glass was cold everywhere it touched skin and felt so damn familiar that it turned her tight, staccato breath into faint laughter.

Widow mattered. She was more than Tracer’s rival and playmate. On or off the battlefield, she was part of Lena’s life. More than that, dammit, Widowmaker was important. Important to her.

Arms slid gently around Lena’s waist, Emily’s warmth against her back a shocking contrast to the chilly window. Her grip was delicate at first, cradling her like glass until Lena felt a sigh ease the pressure in her lungs. The hold around her waist tightened, Emily’s chin coming to rest on her shoulder and share the view out across the London night.

“Do you think she’s out there?” The redhead’s voice was low but not the usual sleepy rasp of when she first woke. How long had she been waiting in bed? Or watching from the doorway?

“Somewhere.” Lena nodded, torn between leaning back into the comfort of Emily’s arms and staying pressed to the frigid pane of glass. Widowmaker was always out there _somewhere_. If not in London, if not tonight, it wouldn’t be long before she was back again. The ghost of a smile turned up one corner of Lena’s lips. It was shockingly easy to believe that fact, like a doctrine of faith.

“You two probably have a few things to talk about.” Emily’s tone held no trace of jealousy. There was only a bemused, affectionate patience. It reminded Lena of Angela’s ‘Kind Doctor Voice,’ the one she used when she needed to gently urge her patients towards healthier lifestyles and perhaps away from so many cigars, sugary sodas or weightlifting competitions.

“Just a few.” Her agreement came out with a wry laugh. She and Widowmaker weren’t particularly good at talking. Then again, they’d never tried, had they? Beyond the basics of thinly veiled threats and double entendre, that is.

“Could you please do me a favor, sweetheart?” Emily’s breath paused by her ear, waiting to feel Lena’s nod before she continued, “When you do see her, give her a message for me. . . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have the light-bulb clicking on for Tracer! I hope it doesn't feel unnatural or rushed, her revelations about all of this. I just wanted her to fit all the pieces together at once after Emily's prodding. Denial is a very comfortable place to live until someone pushes you out.
> 
> As always, I welcome thoughts, opinions, criticisms and suppositions. All kinds of S's. Since this chapter is meant to follow Tracer's stream of consciousness for the most part, I'm hoping everything came through clearly enough to follow a logical progression to her ultimate epiphany moment.


	5. Change

Another glorious morning! Sun was bright, air was crisp and clear, probably some birds somewhere singing their tiny little brains out. Not that anyone would hear them over the gunfire. Tracer darted from cover, flinging a pulse bomb at one of the turrets that had her team pinned down. Really, just an absolutely brilliant day.

“Cavalry’s here!” She shouted happily, kicking up a cloud of dust where she skidded to a stop behind the barricade.

“Oh good, guess I’ll get some shuteye,” Jesse drawled, squeezing off two quick shots before tossing her a wink.

“What, and miss all the fun?” Tracer gaped at him, a good impression of being absolutely aghast. The cowboy’s grizzled face cracked into a grin, chuckling that graveled laugh until a coughing fit cut him off.

“Since when do you get so excited about an ambush?” Genji scowled down at her. That’s what she assumed anyway. It was hard to tell with the mask but Genji always sounded like he was scowling. And maybe a bit constipated too.

“Got a good feeling about this one,” Tracer shrugged easily. No way was she letting Mr. Cranky-Pants ruin her mood.

Being back in battle felt right. It had been weeks since that last tussle and no amount of practice rounds with Lúcio was going to make her blood pump like this. Nerves all tight as steel strings, senses heightened, adrenaline coursing through her veins and making the whole world move almost as fast as she could. She tried to ignore the excited, sparking idea that kept dancing through her thoughts. The reminder that out here there was a chance of—

“DOWN!!” Mercy’s voice screamed over the com.

All of them hit the ground an instant before one wall shuddered and groaned from the impact of a single shot that went through stone and steel. It might’ve only been in her mind but Tracer could swear the air sizzled where the bullet whipped by. A deafening crack of thunder followed a heartbeat later, catching up like a second assault.  She was the first back on her feet, a surge of unbridled glee threatening to giggle out.

“We have a sniper,” Winston observed, cautiously rising and adjusting his glasses to scan the nearby buildings. Tracer’s pulse skipped forward, trying to blink ahead without her. She raked the rooftops with her eyes, searching for the direction of the sound.

“Yeah, thanks for the heads up, genius.” McCree grabbed his hat and grumbled a string of colorful curses. A dart of movement snagged Tracer’s attention and her breath caught.

“There. She’s there.” Tracer wasn’t sure if she was telling the team or just herself, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from the dilapidated skyscraper.

“Well, what’re you waiting for?” McCree crouched and peeked out around the barricade, pistols ready. He glanced back over his shoulder, nodding to Tracer. “You handle the Itsy-bitsy bitch better ‘n most of us.”

“Winston?” Despite the coiled tension in her legs desperate to spring forward, Tracer managed to look to the team leader. Worry twisted a vise on her stomach. Winston was her best friend. Could he tell that this time felt different? Could he see it in her face? She chewed her bottom lip, screaming at herself to just bloody breathe.

“See if you can keep her off us,” Winston confirmed with a grave nod. Tracer didn’t stick around long enough to hear the rest, his roar of ‘be careful’ vanishing in a rush of wind.

Ricocheting bullets whizzed around her on all sides, never quick enough to catch up. Widowmaker was here. Right above her. One blink and Tracer was in a window high overhead.  It felt like a lifetime since she’d seen the sniper. In a way it was. Two blinks and hanging from the lower edge of a balcony across the way. The last time they’d met face to face was a different life. A third blink and the world was nothing but a blur at the edge of her vision as she streaked up the fire escape without touching a single step.

Everything was different now. That thought hit Tracer the same second her feet landed on the roof, jarring her back to the present. A tingle on the back of her neck screamed danger and she spun to find Widow’s Kiss pointed right at her. Death’s own weapon a few inches from her face.

“ _Salut,_ cherié.” A melodic cadence graced Widowmaker’s greeting, coy with the barest whisper of pleasure.

“’Ello to you too, love.” Tracer shot her a quick wink before diving hard to one side, rolling and blinking away from the spray of bullets chasing her heels. She lunged for an industrial AC unit, pistols sliding into her hands as she flipped up and over, returning the warm welcome in a double volley. The bulky machine housing covered her for a few seconds to catch her breath and get control of the grin splitting her cheeks. They weren’t exactly the sort to hug hello, were they?

“You do this with all the girls? Or am I just special?” Tracer darted out and past Widowmaker, forcing the sniper to spin and give ground. They traded bullets the way prizefighters test each other for weaknesses; feinting and circling in a dance they’d perfected together.

“Why must it be either?” There was definitely a hint of amusement in that cool tone and Tracer could picture dark lips lifting into the ghost of a smile.

“True enough.” She had a good shot but waited the split second for Widowmaker’s eyes to land on her. Long enough to be sure the sniper wouldn’t miss her smirk, “It could be both.”

They both opened fire at the same time, racing in opposite directions from bullets that were close but not quite impossible to escape. Tracer dodged around a generator and slammed her back tight against the metal casing.  The brief quiet made her heartbeat deafening.

“You are in good form today.” Widowmaker’s voice carried effortlessly across the rooftop, projected perfectly but still rich and low as if she were murmuring right into Tracer’s ear.

A shiver that was nothing like fear raced down her spine. There was a distant scratching noise. Boots moving stealthily across gravel. So, she wanted to play sneak attack? Tracer chuckled softly to herself. With their initial pleasantries out of the way it was time to up the ante. Today was a perfect day for surprises.

“I got you to thank for that, don’t I?” The hum of the generator vibrated through her whole body as she rested against it, listening for any response. They hadn’t talked about their game in a long time, certainly not this directly. The silence was an answer in itself. Bright air grew heavy in her lungs and Tracer had to force herself to breathe deep and slow. A knot of panic in her throat tried to strangle more words but they struggled through, “Went above and beyond this last time, yeah? Wouldn’t want you to think I’m not grateful.”

“I do not care.” Widowmaker’s harsh reply stung worse than the graze of any bullet. Sharp words, but brittle and cold like thin ice.  She knew that particularly fragile, spiteful tone. It crept into Widow’s voice when she told the truth, but not the truth you might think you were hearing. The real answer was a slippery shadow underneath her words. What use did a frigid assassin have for thanks and gratitude anyway?

“I know.” Tracer nodded, certain the sniper’s visor would reveal her slightest movement. The soft crunch of steps crept towards her and she moved accordingly, inching to the side of the generator.  “But I had to bring it up on account of Emily—,” she yelped at the sudden bullet that punched a perfect hole through metal an inch from her nose. Shite, _not_ the right way to say things. “She sent a message! Emily told me I had to give you a message!” Tracer hurried to shout an explanation before more slugs tore through the generator and her body with it.

 “And just what does your _petite rouquin_ wish me to hear?” The playfulness in Widowmaker’s voice had vanished. There was only chilling threat laced into every syllable like drops of poison in a glass.

“She said to tell you,” Tracer licked her lips, wondering for the hundredth time if this was about to be an olive branch or a death sentence. “She’s bought wine glasses. She wanted you to know. Three of them; well, four actually but she’s counting on me likely breaking one.”

Emily had been so damned mysterious about the whole thing. Had said that Widowmaker would understand but refused to explain anything more. Given that it was Tracer whose arse would be out here getting shot at she wasn’t a big fan of not having all the facts. But Emily had been insistent and after everything she’d put the poor woman through there was no denying her.

 There was also no shooting.

Seconds ticked by, each heartbeat without another bullet raised her spirits. After a brief eternity there was a hushed mechanical click that she recognized as the sound of Widow switching her rifle back to its default mode. She’d gone to standby. Shocking as that revelation was, it paled to nothing when Tracer’s ears caught the soft, velvety murmur of an accented laugh.

“ _Trés habile._ Foolish, but clever.” The Frenchwoman’s bemused response was almost too quiet for Tracer to hear. Those vague notes of surprise mingled with respect. A fresh burst of excitement tingled through her veins, swelling her confidence.

“’S not all.” Tracer strolled out from behind cover, only one pistol in her hands and even that held back like she was striking a pose. “She also asked me to give you something.”

“Oh?” Widowmaker’s lips tilted up at one edge, no doubt an echo to the curious arched brow behind her visor. The butt of her rifle rested on one cocked hip; not quite an invitation but willing to play along.

“Thing is, I have to come close to give it to you. Think you can resist shooting me for a minute or two?” A few slow, deliberately exaggerated steps tested the waters.

“ _Je ne sais pas_ , cherié. We will find out, no?” A swift, graceful movement of one finger and Widow’s visor slid back. Seven hard, red eyes split apart and revealed the twin flames of her gaze beneath. Deep and lustrous, the gold of a dragon’s dreams. Tracer felt a tickle of sweat on the back of her neck, a tremor in her breath with those eyes on her.

“I can be pretty irresistible.” A flash of wit and her cheeky wink was usually enough to break the tension. Widow would roll her eyes at the obvious flirtation, retaliate by taking her down a peg or two and everything would be easy again.

“Sometimes.” Widowmaker gave a nonchalant shrug, the curl of amusement nestled in her lips creeping towards a smile. Butterflies in Tracer’s stomach were caught in gale winds, catching fire under a gaze like embers tracking her every move.

It wasn’t the first time Widow had flirted back. She was a masterful seductress and occasionally delighted in besting the cocky pilot at her own game. Sex was simply another weapon in her arsenal (and anyone who doubted that only had to look at the design of her skintight catsuit). Except now Tracer paid attention, hung not just on what was said but how she said it. The lower timbre of her voice, the glint of approval in darkening eyes. Tracer’s thoughts stormed in a maelstrom of doubt and victory with each step that drew her closer to the assassin.

For as loud as her heart had been slamming inside her ribs, everything felt deathly still as Tracer crossed into the web of Widow’s space. She caught the beguiling fragrance of delicate perfume mingled with GSR and unconsciously took a deep breath, the familiar scent filling her lungs and releasing a sigh. Both her weapons were back in their holsters and she forced her eyes to stay focused only on Widowmaker’s face, not the pale blue finger still caressing a very sensitive rifle trigger.  To her relief, the assassin didn’t twitch or even blink when she reached out.  Every instinct screamed to move fast, to blink in and out before Widow could react. Instead, Tracer measured her movements in the doubled rhythm of her pulse.

“Emily said I should give you this.” Her hand opened to an empty palm and Widowmaker’s fleeting look of confusion vanished into surprise when the pilot’s fingers touched her face.

Before she could lose her nerve (or life) Tracer pressed in and brushed her lips to the assassin’s cheek. Widowmaker tensed, her entire body momentarily frozen in shock. A distant part of Tracer’s brain noticed the reaction but couldn’t make itself heard; her entire head was spinning with the revelation of Widow’s skin against her lips.

Tracer had expected the cold and—because of ancient human instincts—assumed she would feel hard too, like ice. It wasn’t anything like she’d thought. She explored mesmerizing softness, smooth and soothing as the cool side of a pillow on a sweaty night. What was supposed to be a quick peck lingered, letting the new sensations wash over her and greedily drinking them in. An instinctive need for more drew her towards Widowmaker’s mouth, the chilled tickle against her cheek a confession of quickened breath.

Astonishment raced tingling across Tracer’s nerves, euphoria close behind. Widowmaker wasn’t fighting, she wasn’t pulling away; she was— _oh, holy shite—_ Widow was turning to meet her. Tracer’s stomach did a reverse triple somersault with a twist for good measure. The corner of their mouths brushed and she was ready to deliver her soul to either heaven or hell. Then a cold pressure stopped her short. Tracer blinked, only just realizing she’d closed her eyes the moment her lips first touched skin. Widowmaker’s finger sealed her mouth closed, pushing her back a fraction to meet a gaze of molten gold.

“Is this from Emily as well?” Widow’s low tone purred with threat and seduction, so like the lidded eyes dragging her in.

“No.” Tracer shook her head adamantly. She reached up to pull the long blue finger away from her mouth, freeing her trademark smile. “Why should she have all the fun?”

A fleeting emotion twitched the corner of Widowmaker’s mouth, softening almost imperceptibly before allowing Tracer to take her in a kiss. One brief, hesitant caress of lips and she might as well have grabbed an electric fence. There was no letting go. Her hands darted up to catch Widow’s face, holding onto a lifeline against the feeling that she was growing so light she’d float away. Cold skin grounded her, chilled the back of her neck where icy fingers cradled her head and trembled from the effort of not clenching tight.

How long had she wanted this? How much longer without even knowing? The fuse had been burning for so long Tracer had forgotten what life was like without sparks dancing on every nerve. Tension uncoiled in her chest and spread heat through her veins, the excitement and relief of victory without caring who’d won. It was the fall of the first domino, or maybe the last; a cascade as irresistible as gravity blooming into something impossible, elaborate, beautiful.

The face in her hands shifted, tilting to just the right angle and parted her lips. The moan that had been caught behind Tracer’s teeth spilled free. No wonder it was called French. A rush of cold sucked the air from her lungs, and the clever swipe of Widow’s tongue stole anything left. Widowmaker tasted like a winter night; that crisp, clear air with the promise of snow. Tracer couldn’t breathe and had never cared less about dying, couldn’t even laugh because she finally understood the perfection of a rifle named Widow’s Kiss.

The ambient air felt hot against her lips when Widowmaker broke away, the pop of their mouths separating somehow louder than the firefight below. Tracer fought to make her breaths slow and deep, resisted the impulse to greedily gulp for air like a diver about to plunge back in. Widow’s other hand drifted across her cheek. When had she holstered her rifle? One thumb brushed her lower lip, cooling the reddened sting.

After so many battles Tracer had learned the deathly rhythm of Widow’s pulse, the languor of breath she barely needed. To feel that both were louder, faster, erratic in a way that the disciplined assassin would never have allowed made her ego swell, a balloon near to bursting. Tracer found the other woman’s eyes, the lustrous color a dark and brilliant mirror to her own.

“This,” Widowmaker’s sultry voice was a throaty rasp, her grip pulling Tracer close enough to make no mistake what she meant. “Changes nothing.”

“Course not,” Tracer easily hummed in agreement, sighing contentedly when Widow’s mouth laid claim to her once more.

Which wasn’t to say that nothing was going to change. Sodding hell, nothing could stay the same, but the two of them didn’t make any difference. Because this—Tracer’s teeth nipped and soothed Widow’s lip, relishing a first stolen sigh— _this_ had been here all along.

A melting sense of relief washed through her. Every taste and touch of Widowmaker confirmed she was exactly where she was meant to be. The lithe body that molded to hers as perfectly as their lips erased any other concern. There was barely enough focus left in Tracer’s dissolving thoughts for a final spark of surprise: Emily—that clever minx—had just beaten them both at their own game.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this may not have been the emotional conversation some of you were hoping for, but it's pretty much how I picture them handling things. Action first, talk later. Maybe. Hopefully it feels authentic to the audience as well.
> 
> As usual, a drooling thanks to everyone whose been so supportive with comments and feedback.


	6. Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to all of you who took action with this plagiarism debacle. Whether it was by letting me and the other writers know, or interceding by sending abuse reports, your effort was much appreciated. And successful, as it turns out! I, for one, was surprised by how quickly the whole affair was handled. So, to celebrate here's the last chapter!

**Thousands Rally in Petras Protests**

**Repeal Debates Divide UN Assembly**

**Overwatch Agents Exonerated**

Every headline screamed for attention. Bold, blocky letters somehow conveyed the maniacal enthusiasm of journalists all wetting themselves as they grappled and clawed past each other to grab readers. Swiping through the day’s news Emily wondered if the reporters even understood the full impact of each revelation. For the world, certainly; but for individuals? For people like Lena and Winston. For the family and friends of the heroes, the people that loved them regardless of what anyone else thought.

Smaller headlines hinted at other stories the way office gossip whispers around a water cooler. Ghosts Among Us: Cheating Death by Dying. Financial Irregularities at Vishkar Corporation. Talon Goes Dark. Russia Opens Talks With the West. These were the real stories, but no one had any facts. Or at least, no two facts were the same. Athena had been learning new tricks.  Emily smiled and swiped through another page of articles, all of them noisy, adamant and clueless.

The familiar sensation of being watched lifted her eyes in time to see her companion slip into a chair across from her at the bistro table.

“ _Bonjour, mon amie._ ” Widowmaker gave a subtle tilt of her head in greeting.

Emily smiled, putting the tablet aside and leaning forward eagerly. “It’s good to see you, Widow. Or Amélie. Amé?” Warmth crept up her cheeks as she awkwardly fumbled through different names. She gave up with an embarrassed chuckle, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you go by these days.”

“ _Je n’ai pas de preference._ ” The assassin gave her typical, elegant shrug. “Whatever suits my company.”

“Widow, then,” Emily decided with a small sigh of relief. That was how she’d always thought of her and probably always would. Despite Amélie Lacroix being granted legal pardon. Despite the dozens— _hundreds?_ —of times she’d heard Lena’s voice wrap so affectionately around ‘Amé.’

The assassin hadn’t bothered to camouflage herself like she did in the past. Afternoon sunlight illuminated the powder blue of her skin with a warmth that rendered her closer to marble than death. She garnered more than her fair share of attention, but that was less about her color and more about, well, everything else. The waiter that came rushing over stumbled into and around three separate tables before arriving, breathless, by their side. Before he could even open his mouth Widowmaker was issuing orders.

“ _Nous voulons deux verres de vins, s’il vous plaît. Un Bordeaux pour moi, et elle prendre une petite syrah. Merci.”_ She didn’t pause, didn’t look up at him and certainly didn’t bother to notice his terrified hamster expression.

“Right, that’s uhm,” the waiter’s fumbling reply had a telltale trace of Scottish brogue in it too. Poor lamb. “That was a Bordeaux and a—?” He looked over to Emily, silently begging for help.

“Petite syrah if you have it. If not, whatever is closest will be fine.” She offered her most reassuring smile, watching his tortured expression melt into a puddle of gratitude. She waited until he was out of earshot before cocking a scolding brow at Widow. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“Barbaric tongue,” the Frenchwoman scoffed, barely hiding a tiny smirk. The same as always happened when Emily tried to chastise her for having fun.

“How does going official feel?” She settled back in her chair, scrutinizing the sniper as though there’d be some physical transformation to go along with her government contract. Useless, of course, since no military bearing could ever hold a candle to the dancer’s disciplined poise.

“A target is a target. The trigger feels the same.” A bored flutter of Widowmaker’s hand dismissed the entire subject.

The chill that stole down Emily’s spine was one she hadn’t felt in a while. She had grown accustomed to thinking of Widow as simply a woman, an ally, someone she could trust and understand. Moments like this when death was so blasé and meaningless in her cold voice were a jarring reminder that there was a lot of Widowmaker she’d never know. Parts of her that Emily didn’t _want_ to know.

Fortunately, the wine arrived and saved her from those thoughts. The enthusiastic waiter had filled both glasses to the brim but wisely didn’t linger at their table. He might’ve hit more furniture getting away than he first did coming over. Emily took a sip, sighing appreciatively at the taste. That she’d learned the mannerism from Widow wasn’t lost on either of them and dark lips definitely twitched towards a smile before focusing on her own drink.

The wine glasses Emily bought had been put to good use (they’d also had to be replaced a few times since Lena eventually broke not just one but three). Over a number of hesitant evenings Widowmaker had patiently guided her through the complex world of oenophilia, pretending not to know that Emily was learning about more than wine. The pretext served them both: giving Widow a reason to visit and Emily the dignity of an actual person, not an afterthought. Along the way Emily discovered she couldn’t stand the rich, earthy wines the Frenchwoman seemed to favor and fell in love with syrahs and pinot noirs instead.

“How are you settling into the new flat?” Small talk felt natural with the sniper. Lord help her, it really did. Firstly because it was polite and Widowmaker thrived on etiquette, but also because Emily found she genuinely cared. It was these small details that added context and depth to a woman that could otherwise be painted in such broad brushstrokes that she became a caricature of herself.

“It is-,” Widowmaker stopped herself short, weighing several answers and her audience. It was a small testimony of respect that she didn’t fall back to the same instinctively rude and superior response she’d give others. “Sparse. I have not needed furniture for quite some time.”

“No, you wouldn’t, would you?” Emily’s mouth went sour and she reached for her glass. If there was anything Widow didn’t tolerate (and _that_ was an excruciatingly long list), it was pity. Another sip of wine washed away the taste and let her put a bright smile back on. “But it’s an easy fix. Give me a weekend and a few sales and you’ll be kitted out in no time. Pretty soon I’ll be drinking at _your_ place for a change.”

Even said as a joke Emily couldn’t deny the grain of truth beneath her laugh. These rituals she and Widowmaker had developed were inevitably going to change but she didn’t want them to go away.  What had started as the occasional evening in the flat grew to tea once in a blue moon as well, sometimes entire meals or—once—a long, rainy afternoon. Brief and random minutes built into hours, the familiarity turning into comfort. Comfort bred boldness. Before Emily understood how, she had a cell number for getting in touch if there was an emergency. The definition of ‘emergency’ gradually broadened until it included restaurant recommendations, complaints about not being allowed to kill rude cabbies, and pictures of Lena looking particularly cute in her sleep.

“I look forward to it.” Widowmaker’s quieter tone tactfully acknowledged what went unsaid. Then her usual air of languid superiority returned and she made that distinctive scoffing sound in the back of her throat, “But furniture is not the only problem. Decoration is proving _trés difficile._ I’m sure you can imagine why, no?”

Before Emily could laugh at the assassin’s melodramatic scowl, a sudden wind rustled hair and napkins into disarray. Menus went flying on the breeze and Widowmaker’s sharp reflexes snapped theirs out of the air, one eyebrow twitching up wearily.

“Cheers, loves! Miss me?” Tracer appeared like a blue bullet, her voice momentarily stretched by Doppler Effect. If the rest of the bistro patrons were upset by the tempestuous arrival any grumbles of complaint were swiftly overwhelmed by murmuring awe.

“How could anyone miss you, Lena?” Emily pointed out, Tracer’s kiss on her cheek evoking an irresistible smile.

“Dunno, you’d have to ask this one.” Tracer turned her attention to Widow, mischief even brighter in her eyes. She leaned down, about to give the assassin the same greeting but pausing long enough to tease, “All those bullets and she never hit me once.”

“I will kill you when I’m ready.” Widowmaker’s indifferent tone was softer at the edges, low and dangerous but undeniably intimate.

If Tracer’s kiss to the sniper’s cheek lasted a little longer Emily made a point of not watching. Just as she didn’t let herself notice the hint of violet flush that crept up Widow’s face. Lena dropped into a third chair between them, smiling that irrepressible grin. The sniper’s own expression was at war, torn between _how dare she look so fucking cute_ and _merde, je l’aime._ Emily’s French wasn’t top notch, but she had enough basics to know what Widowmaker said when her eyes got that dark glint.

“So, what’re we talking about?” Lena slid Emily’s glass over to take a sniff, grimacing at the smell.

“Your deplorable taste.” Widowmaker rolled her eyes and swatted the hand that tried to reach for her wine as well.

“Nope, that’s bollocks,” Tracer shook her head, tousled spikes of hair exaggerating every movement. “My taste is top notch. Proof is sitting right here at this table, yeah?”

Emily felt warmth creeping up her cheeks, a quick glance at Widow confirming that the sniper was fighting a smile as well. It was a particular magic of Lena’s, this ability to make everyone feel special. No dissembling, no awkwardness, just a heart wide enough to welcome the whole world and still have extra on the side. Emily had thought that was what she’d miss most, but it never really went away.

“You have something, don’t you, cherié?” Widow gently nudged Tracer. Then again, less gently.

“What?” Lena blinked, caught by surprise in the middle of one of her ‘no, I most certainly was not staring, thank you very much,’ moments. Her freckles looked even more adorable dusted across pink cheeks and she quickly tore her eyes away from Widow.

“For Emily?” Widowmaker prodded, impatience a thin veil for the fondness underneath.

“Right! Yes, that. Got it!” Tracer fumbled inside her jacket to retrieve a sleek black box. She slid it across the table, her smile turning nervous. “It’s not much, love. But I— _we,_ that is—thought you’d like it.”

Just the way she stumbled over the words and kept glancing to Widow for encouragement told Emily exactly whose idea it had really been. She lifted the gift curiously, looking for hints in either of the faces watching her. It looked like a jewelry box, long and narrow for a necklace or tennis bracelet. Instinct told her with absolute conviction that it wouldn’t be either of those things. Fancy gifts might be Widowmaker’s style, but she wouldn’t bother with anything so impersonal. Emily cracked the lid open and for a moment her breath caught, then tumbled free in a sigh that turned to a soft chuckle.

The metalwork was beautiful, polished to a high shine and engraved with her name. She delicately lifted the corkscrew out of its plush velvet lining. Even the etched filigree looked like custom work.

“I know the last one went missing during the move,” Lena explained, a quieter tone confessing that she was speaking for herself now. The swell of emotion in her voice matched the shimmering of her eyes. “Widow wouldn’t let me get the ordinary bottle shop kind. Said you deserved something proper. A—what was it, love?”

“Something worthy of you,” Widowmaker supplied without taking her eyes from Emily. “The right gift should be either a reminder or promise of good memories.”

“And which is this?” Emily fought to keep her tone light, to keep the wetness building in her throat from seeping into words.

“Both.” Widow’s touch was shockingly kind as she brushed Emily’s fingers, guiding her to flip the corkscrew over. On the back, engraved in letters just like on the front, was a message.

_In Vino Veritas_

It took a moment for Emily to decipher but then a bubble of laughter burst in her chest, clearing thick emotions and squeezing a few stray tears from the corner of her eyes. Of course. It all went back to that night, didn’t it? Even with everything that had changed since, that one evening was the turning point. Emily couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

“Thank you.” She beamed at Widowmaker. The assassin made some noise of demurral, her eyes slipping away from the unsettling sight of naked gratitude.

“’S not just a gift, you know,” Lena chimed in. Her hand had found Widow’s on the table, unconsciously taking command to speak for them both. “It’s an invitation. You’re still part of our lives, Em. You’re always welcome.”

“I’ll come visit soon. I promise.” Emily looked back and forth between them, choosing to focus on Widowmaker with a wry smirk. “I have to help make sure the flat doesn’t end up decked with old RAF enlistment posters and football jerseys.”

“Oi! No fair. She’s already got her art all over the walls and is threatening to throw out my favorite pillow!” Tracer huffed, affronted.

“It has been drooled on more than a rented bib,” Widowmaker countered without batting an eye.

“Then it fits right in, doesn’t it? Goes well with that chair what’s had fifty years of other peoples’ arses sitting on it.” The grin spreading across Lena’s face was absolute contentment, a smug cat napping in the sun.

“Ruined, cherié, is not the same as vintage.” There was even a smile gracing Widow’s lips, her whole face lit from within.

Emily sat back and listened to the two bicker happily. Perhaps passersby on the street didn’t hear the affection in their voices, or notice that blue and white fingers stayed tenderly interwoven. Emily saw it all, just as clearly as she’d seen it the first night Widowmaker stepped into the flat. She’d had time to make peace with this truth.

Lena was hers for nearly two years. Yet never hers alone, because Tracer had belonged to someone else all along. It didn’t matter if that was the rest of the world, Overwatch or only Widowmaker herself. Emily treasured their time together for another year more, watching her girlfriend reconcile two halves of her life into a single whole. When the day came that Tracer won out over Lena, she’d been expecting it for so long she couldn’t even pretend to be surprised. (Which made the slipstream pilot pout very cutely for a while.)

Resenting what cannot be is almost as futile as longing for what never was. Emily had always been grateful for Lena. For their time together, for the heart she opened so easily and the love she still gave without question. Now, though, Emily was grateful for Widowmaker too. They were both miracles, in their own way; brought back to life and thrown into danger. They deserved each other, balanced in a way that made them both complete.

Tracer and Widow gone to lengths to prove they still wanted her to be part of their lives, be it as friend, drinking buddy or referee in the next petty spat. Truthfully, though? Watching the way the two argued and smiled as if the entire world had ceased to exist, Emily knew that so long as they had each other they’d never need anything else.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it then! If you squint, I think there's probably a chance for everyone to interpret the ending the way they like.  
> Sorry I didn't have the patience to rake the story over the angst coals of the entire relationship developing and such but, as I've said, it was meant to be an experiment in familiarization. Which I've enjoyed thoroughly thanks to all of you. Thanks for joining me on the adventure!
> 
> Also, a grateful bow to doublepasse for helping my anglo ass with all the French.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, I have a wretched case of fandom ADD and feel like bouncing around a bit. I find the Overwatch world quite fascinating but must admit: I've never played the game and likely never will. Terrible at multiplayers AND shooters. But where there's a bit of canon F/F fun I can't resist. 
> 
> So, since all the online research in the world won't be the same as actually playing the game, feel free to let me know if I've screwed up any canon or anyone ends up OoC. Fans will know better than I will.
> 
> This is a bit of a tester fic as I experiment with everyone, stretching out inside the characters as it were and getting a feel for them. Much as I love WidowTracer, I'm not too keen to bypass Emily entirely. Like I said, testing the waters. Thoughts and feedback kindly appreciated. 
> 
> Could be one-shot, could be more. Undecided.


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